There was a wreath of wild flowers in her hair.
"My purty maid, are your people near ?" Solomon asked in the Mohawk tongue.
She looked up at him, her beautiful dark eyes full of tears, and sorrowfully shook her head.
"My father was a great white chief," she said.

"Always a little bird tells me to love the white man.

The beautiful young pale face on a red horse took my heart with him.

I go, too." "You must go back to your people," said Solomon.
Again she shook her head, and, pointing up the trail, whispered: "They will burn the Little White Birch.

No more will I go in the trail of the red man.